


fearsick

by SpaceCadetGlow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angels, Angst, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Demons, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Metaphysics, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Roman baths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21165869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCadetGlow/pseuds/SpaceCadetGlow
Summary: Scenes and vignettes throughout history.  Chapter 1 is Crowley POV, Chapter 2 is Aziraphale POV and continues the story.  Left open-ended with room for more."He should have backed down, should have kept placating the angel.  But he wouldn’t be spoken to like that, as if he was always a damned thing, as if corruption was all he had ever been good for.  “Tell me I’m lying,” he challenged.  He stared the angel dead in the face.  His pulse pounded in every limb, every finger, and his wings tensed, ready to unfurl."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a set of vignettes and character exploration. If you enjoy it please leave a comment, hearing from readers really makes my day. And I might continue, so if there's something you'd like to see, please prompt! :)

He was created to love, and love was all he knew. Everything he did was in service to Her, every atom forged, every star suspended in the firmament. He figured out nuclear fusion — they wouldn’t have to make the new elements manually anymore — and basked in the glow of Her approval. _Well done, my clever child,_ he felt, deep in the center of his being. There was no greater satisfaction than this rare moment of direct acknowledgement, and his form sang out for love of her. He would gladly make anything in service of Her desires, and he delighted in each star, each nebula— 

The work order was for, essentially, a collapsed star. A deep gravity well, so strong that not even light could escape it once it crossed the threshold. He did not understand. It was too powerful a thing to create outright, but surely She was not asking him to build something only to destroy it. 

He asked.

He built dozens of stars, each more beautiful than the last, before receiving a reply.

The response was not unkind, but it was final. There were many of these to be made, at least one for every galaxy. Still more to wander between the galaxies, devouring. Surely there was another way to keep a galaxy together, he thought, another way to piece together the heavy elements She wanted for her future projects. Yet dutifully, he worked. 

He constructed the star with huge amounts of matter; it burned blue, and it was hungry. Its corona edged ever outward, seeking more fuel until its own gravity overtook it. He knew what would happen, it was there in the designs, but nevertheless he did not like watching the star grow brighter and brighter until it burst, and succumbed to its own gravity. Matter swirled and spiraled around it, now a dark mirror of its former self. Although he existed outside of this physical plane, he could almost feel the pull of its maw as it began to absorb whatever it could reach. He did not have a name for what he felt. There was no joy in this work, but it must be good, because it was for Her whom he loved, and who loved him. 

He loved the others also, but none more so than Lucifer, because he was Her favorite too. Michael was the first, but she had put the most of Herself into Lucifer, and named him the Lightbringer. Ages into the future, humans would depict Lucifer with a bold, luminous face, a sculpted body, flowing hair; but it was humans, not angels, who had been created in the image of God. Lucifer’s beauty was of pure matter and energy, the mathematical perfection of a balanced equation, of such exquisite form to make Euclid and Pythagoras weep. His brightness burned fierce and clever, and he took such an interest in everything his fellows had to say. He could be trusted with thoughts that they hardly dared speak aloud. He thought the starbuilding angel’s questions had merit. Lucifer had questions as well.

Just like the blue supergiants, it was only a matter of time before it all collapsed. 

There was a battle, and he had been frightened. He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, that was never what this was about, but it was too late. Angels killing angels, it was almost unthinkable. He couldn’t hold back, not now. Annihilate or be annihilated.

The lines had been drawn, sides had been chosen, life had been stolen away. And then a single command from Her, the last time he would hear Her voice: **_Enough._**

It was a long way down. 

He was flayed alive, every bit of him peeled back as the Light was ripped from him, for there would be none where he was going. Where it could not escape this way, where it was too deep inside, it knifed through him like shards of glass, like splinters to the surface. He shed Grace in a trail behind him as he Fell, as falsely bright as one of the comets he had created, until he hit bottom. 

Howling and retching and clawing at themselves, he and his fellow Fallen hauled themselves out of the roiling sulfur and lay wretched on the stinking shores. He was so hideously empty, as though he had one of his black holes inside of him, only crushing void where there once was light. Around him, the others screamed and wept and begged. He could only stare numbly upwards. There were no stars here. 

Some looked to Lucifer for guidance, but he was silent and grim, exuding such rage and terrible grief that none dared approach him. At long last he rose and addressed them, and it seemed to the Fallen that something in him had changed, as all of them might change. _Silence your pleas,_ he told them. _She does not listen. She has rejected and abandoned us here._ At this, someone wailed, and his gaze fell stern and jealous upon them until they stilled. _There is no forgiveness for us, but someday there will be vengeance, I assure you of that. Until then, we will comport ourselves with dignity, for here at least we shall be free._ He glared down at the Fallen, looking for challengers, seeing none. _It is better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven._

Of course, only one could reign in Hell. 

———————————

Crawly emerged into Paradise. 

The air was clean and fresh on his flicking tongue. The whole place had the shine of newness to it, of endless potential. After so long in the dreary bowels of Hell, he was nearly overwhelmed by the gentleness of the warm breeze on his scales. He deliberately stayed in snake form to keep it together — wouldn’t do to show up to make trouble, and be discovered getting all weepy under a fig tree. 

It was nighttime, when most creatures were sleeping. There were two humans here somewhere, he knew. He’d seen the early designs, but that hadn’t been his department, and his memories of Before were dim and hazy. When he tried to remember any details, his head would ache. But he knew what to look for — Prince Beelzebub had started assigning what they called “corporations” to topside agents. “Human disguizezz,” they had hummed, showing theirs off with a slow rotation that might have been comical if not for the cloud of flies. Theirs was slight, compact, with iridescent wings folded against their back. “To move amongzt them, unawarezz.” 

For now, it seemed wiser to slither rather than walk, as there were all manner of animals here in the garden, and he had been told that there were angels on guard. He had not seen an angel since he had _been_ one, and he steadfastly ignored the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of encountering one. He slid almost noiselessly under lush green leaves, marveling at the cool damp earth and the expansive sky above him.

He had orders, but they were vague and not time-sensitive. “Get up there and make zzome trouble,” Beelzebub had said. When he had asked what they meant by that, they’d shrugged wearily. They didn’t know and didn’t care to ask. “Our Mazter dezirezz it.” 

He assumed this meant he had time to explore. Satan had become ever more distant and inscrutable since the Fall, and no one could fault Crawly for taking his time if no one knew what he was supposed to be doing anyway. And what he wanted, right now, was to get a better look at that sky. 

He and his fellow demons had spent aeons preparing Hell for human souls. Crawly himself had overseen the excavation of the pits where sinners were to writhe in eternal damnation. He had little concept of what that actually meant, but he knew it was a waste of his talents, and had done a deliberately mediocre job of it. He had sculpted entire _galaxies_. Mass torture wasn’t really his bag. 

Eventually he reached the wall. What lay beyond it? Could he see better from up there? He flicked his tongue, smelling for danger, and found none. He broached the wall easily and rested atop it, pleased by the way the stone was still warm to the touch. His eyesight was poor in this form, but he could see that past the wall there was nothing. Not void, he knew void when he saw it, but endless shifting sands under an endless shifting sky. Being a snake was useful, but the weak vision frustrated him. He tasted the air a second time. Still alone. It was worth the risk.

He set his will to rearranging his bones into the bipedal form of his corporation, only marginally less sinuous than his snake form. He was relieved by the successful transformation, as he was every time. Six appendages: two arms, two legs, two wings. He was still a little clumsy in this form, but up here, with the soft wind in his hair, he felt almost graceful. He stretched his wings once, then delicately tucked them back behind him, and looked up…

_…and up and up._

There they all were. By Satan’s wings, he remembered this as clear as glass. The stars winked and glittered and danced overhead. A thick stripe of light cut across the center of the black sky. It took him a moment to place it, but it had to be a spiral arm of one of the galaxies, where the stars were clustered so densely in front of one another that they could scarcely be told apart. He’d had a hand in most of them, but he’d never been _inside_ a galaxy like this, never seen his work filtered through atmosphere. The stars seemed nearly close enough to touch, and he had to catch himself to stop from reaching up. He knew they were incredibly distant, the light old by the time it reached his eyes, what he saw was not truly the present but a picture of what once was… 

He blessed under his breath and screwed his mouth up small to quash the swell of feeling that threatened to burst out of him. He refused to analyze it, but he always felt too much, and about the wrong things. 

“Pardon me,” a voice said to his right.

He started, and then pretended that he hadn’t. “Evening,” he said airily. The voice belonged to an angel, and the angel was holding a sword, and the sword was on fire. His corporation had something called a heart inside it, and it started hammering away without Crawly telling it to. The angel could probably hear it, and know exactly what to aim for. _Fuck._

“I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here,” the angel said. This was it, he was going to end up discorporated, or worse, before his mission had even really begun, all because he was weak and sentimental. The pounding in his chest was joined by a nauseated feeling deep in his stomach. Was his corporation malfunctioning? He should have practiced more in it. Oh, Beelzebub was going to be furious, and put him on torture pit duty for eternity as punishment. _If_ he survived this. 

“You have your job to do, I have mine,” he heard himself say, while his brain played out a dozen scenarios that might allow him to escape. Turn back into a snake, vault over this wall into the sand, take to the air… but if he fled, where would he go? Angels were beings of fury and vengeance; this one would find him eventually, as long as he was in the Garden. Even his snake form did not conceal the infernal energy that made him instantly recognizable. He would have to sink through the ground back into Hell, the moment the angel brandished his weapon.

The angel looked stern and serious, but did not move to slay him on the spot. “Which is what, exactly? Just what are you doing up here?”

Crawly shrugged. Keep him talking. “Right now? Bit of stargazing.” The angel glanced up at the sky, and in a moment of reckless self-preservation, Crawly added, “I helped make them, you know. _Before._ Never got to see them completed.”

The angel regarded him with undisguised suspicion. “You didn’t.”

He should have backed down, should have kept placating the angel. But he wouldn’t be spoken to like that, as if he was always a damned thing, as if corruption was all he had ever been good for. “Tell me I’m lying,” he challenged. He stared the angel dead in the face. His pulse pounded in every limb, every finger, and his wings tensed, ready to unfurl.

Cold blue eyes searched his, then softened and looked away, and at least the angel had the decency to look a little abashed. The Garden was quiet but not silent at night. Crickets chirped in the grasses; a lone owl hooted in the distance. The wind rustled the leaves. Everything was new and overstimulating and almost too much for Crawly to parse, not least of all standing next to an angel and watching the sky together. While the bone-deep fear he had felt earlier was not gone — he would always have to watch his back — it was abating. 

“They _are_ beautiful,” the angel finally said, a cease-fire. The sword was pointed at the ground now, held loosely in the angel’s grip; the sword’s dazzling blaze had dimmed to a soft flicker along the edges. Perhaps he wasn’t in danger anymore. 

Crawly felt the angel steal a glance at him and look away. When he looked back, the angel’s eyes flickered to him for a moment before turning to the sky with an inscrutable expression. What could he possibly say? “Yeah,” he allowed. 

“It must be nice to see them again. After all this time.” The angel’s voice was gentle and Crawly hated how demeaning it felt, the softness certainly belying angelic condescension. Still, it wouldn’t do to provoke the angel and be discorporated after all, so he responded with only a fraction of the venom he might have mustered.

“You know, I don’t need your pity, angel.” 

The other being shifted uncomfortably. “Of course not,” he said in a way that implied exactly the opposite. “Well. I’ll leave you to it. The stargazing, that is,” he added hastily. “Good night.”

“G’night,” Crawly muttered. That had gone… differently than he’d expected. He didn’t trust the angel, not one bit, but as he watched the stars wheel across the sky and fade into the dawn, he wondered if maybe he’d lashed out unfairly. Maybe the angel had truly been trying to be kind. But angels were supposed to be _good_, not kind. Not kind at all. 

He was going to have to watch out for that one.

———————————

Early on, Crawly taught himself how to sleep. He had watched the first humans do it, seen the peace on their faces in their temporary oblivion, and the way they awoke refreshed, ready for a new start. He thought he'd like to try it. The earthly needs of his corporation could be easily overridden, but the default settings kicked back in if he let them. It was just a matter of letting go. Trusting things to happen as they should.

That had never been one of his strong suits, of course.

After many nights, lying awake and uncomfortable, willing his restless mind to quiet down, nervous that someone might come to check on him and find him idle... he finally did it. His mind slipped under the surface of conscious thought, and for the first time he existed on a plane neither earthly nor ethereal. It was chaos, it was possibility, it was bliss.

What he had not been expecting were the vivid hallucinations.

He was there at the Ark, animals lining up two by two. They walked, or crawled, or flew onto the boat -- but he had been there, and some of these creatures had not. Amongst the standard Earth models were beasts with too many wings, or wild purple fur, or horns in places they did not belong. Early drafts, rejected designs.

Aziraphale was there also, because of-bloody-course he was. This time instead of a rainbow, the Almighty was going to send a case of Aziraphale's favorite wine after the Flood, and that would make it alright. Dream-Aziraphale offered very courteously to share it with him, and he acquiesced; yes, that would be jolly good, never mind the drowned kids, they would have died eventually anyway.

He awoke with a bad taste in his mouth, both literal and metaphorical, and did not try sleeping again for some time.

———————————

Crawly quite liked humans, but especially children. He couldn’t help it. He had thought he’d find them annoying, so small and helpless, but no. They were funny, and loud, and chaotic, and irreverent, and honest, and — bless it — _sweet_. 

“Why are your eyes like that?” said a small one, no older than four.

Crawly grinned. “Because I’m a snake,” he said, and pretended to lunge. The child shrieked in delight and collapsed in a fit of giggles. They were never afraid of him, and they had no reason to be. Couldn’t tempt a child, their brains were still all squishy and unfinished.

For a while he had entertained the notion of having one of his own. Not _really_ his own, that wasn’t possible; they’d stopped issuing corporations with reproductive capabilities after the Nephilim scandal. The only literal Hellspawn would be the Antichrist, someday. But maybe he could _take_ one. Children were orphaned all the time, after all. Sometimes even because of him. 

This was one such occasion. 

The child was too young to walk, and too old to be considered an infant. Curious brown eyes looked up at him from a round-cheeked face. “Bugger,” he muttered to himself. 

The thing about temptation was that once the seed was planted in his mark’s mind, what they chose to do about it was really up to them. In this case, he had tempted a villager to steal from his neighbor. The man had thought the hut was empty, but the serving girl was there, with her young daughter in a basket near the fire. She surprised him, he struck her, she hit her head, and she might as well have been sent gift-wrapped up to Heaven, with a card reading _Compliments of the Demon Crawly._

“Bugger,” he repeated, letting the child’s pudgy hand grab one of his fingers. She cooed at him, blissfully unaware of her mother’s corpse just outside of the glow of the fire. The child was so small and so fragile, and this wasn’t exactly Crawly’s fault, but it wasn’t hers either. If he lost control of his corporation, if his fangs descended and claws lengthened, he could hurt her without even trying. He flicked his tongue out, and in the air he tasted innocence and trust alongside the tang of blood.

“Satan preserve me,” he groaned. “Think, Crawly, think.” There was a temple here that took in orphans and raised them in their faith. Wouldn’t it be just his luck if after all this, the child grew up to become a priestess? Over his dead corporation, would he allow that. 

A brothel? Already overrun with unwanted children, some of whom— well, he couldn’t stomach _that_ either. 

The owner of this home. The dead mother’s employer. He had wealth and resources enough to afford a servant; surely he could support a child. All Crawly had to do was wait.

When the man returned home, he was greeted by a snap of fingers, and a pair of golden eyes reflecting the dying firelight. “You have a responsibility, human,” Crawly hissed. “You’ve always wanted a child, haven’t you? Blamed your wife when she never gave you one. It’s not her fault you’re sterile as a mule.” He pushed the child into the man’s arms. “This is your daughter.”

He did the blessing, to make the man love her as his own flesh and blood. He had never told anyone in Hell of this ability; he wasn’t sure if it was something all demons could do, or just another facet of his supremely fucked-up existence, but he didn’t think Beelzebub would like it. It left a strange taste in his mouth, and left him feeling exhausted and dazed. 

“See that she wants for nothing,” he said. He released his hold over the man, and took his leave. 

The child would be alright. He’d seen to it, that little bit of obligation resolved. She would be happy and healthy. And if she made mistakes? That was alright. Children were _expected_ to screw up, and they were loved anyway. 

———————————

Humans had always been superstitious. Many cultures had devised their own religions, which delighted Crawly -- as far as he could tell, they could stick it to the Almighty and still get to Heaven. It had been a huge morale hit in Hell when they'd realized that they weren't guaranteed the souls of the heathens and pagans who did not worship in what they'd all assumed was the correct way. Dagon had grimly informed the Dark Council via some viscera-stained bar graphs, that the humans actually had to be pretty objectively terrible to make it in. “It appears that some of the commandments were more like suggestions,” she said disdainfully. 

Beelzebub barely reacted to that news, but Crawly noticed the way their mouth pressed into a thin line, the way the flies around them became even more agitated. It was admirable restraint, considering how Beelzebub was going to have to convey this to Satan later, a task no one envied. Crawly himself was resisting the urge to put his fist through the table. _Here_ they all were, and these pathetic mortals only had to not be _complete_ bastards to each other to remain in her favor. No one wanted to be the one to say it, it would be forbidden, and so they sat in frustrated silence until Beelzebub said through gritted teeth, "Lookzz like we have work to do."

"We can still make quota," croaked Ligur. "If we put our nose to the brimstone." The look that Hastur gave him could curdle milk while it was still inside the cow.

It wasn't all bad, though. Some parts of the world even worshipped snakes; in those places his golden eyes were admired and he was a welcomed guest, with gifts lavished upon him. Wine he would take, and good food, and shelter, and nothing else. Even if the young women and men that were presented to him looked upon him with shy desire, there was little attraction for him in humans. He was fond of them, in the way that humans were fond of certain animals. They were too small, too temporary, too easy. There would be no thrill in it.

In other places, they no longer accepted the supernatural amongst them as they once did. Anything they could not control, they rejected, and they could not account for or explain Crawly’s yellow eyes and dark countenance as anything but evil walking among them. And they weren't _wrong_, but what ever happened to live and let live? 

He'd been moving through a small market, a few centuries before a young man who was decidedly _not_ the son of a carpenter came along. He stirred up a bit of discord as he went, but was mostly looking for the wine vendor. He was used to whispers and glances trailing in his wake; his corporation (currently female-ish) was designed to be mysterious and alluring. Now, however, someone didn't like the look of him.

“Her eyes!” someone shrieked. That wasn’t good. Crawly ducked his head and lifted his hand, drawing up his power to miracle everyone’s attention elsewhere, but as he did so, something struck him wetly and made him stumble. He turned, foolishly, to see what had happened, and saw a man hefting another fruit into his hand. “Monster! Witch!” he shouted, and suddenly dozens of pairs of very human eyes were upon him. _Ugh._ Altering this many people’s memories always left him exhausted, but it was better than explaining to Dagon why he needed a new corporation.

And then as quickly as the attention had snapped to him, it dissipated like smoke, and the humans went back to their business. Crawly looked around suspiciously. He was fairly certain he hadn’t done that, and the whiff of sandalwood and vanilla in the air hadn’t been there before. 

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale said, sidling up near him, and looking very interested in the fabric being sold at the nearest stall. 

“Nice day for it,” he answered. 

“For what?” The angel’s hands swept over a cloth so finely woven it was nearly sheer.

“Oh, you know. Shopping. A nice walk in the market. Miracles.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said smoothly. 

“You never do,” Crawly drawled.

“I almost didn’t recognize you like this. Been a woman long?”

Crawly was pleased that Aziraphale had noticed; sometimes human customs escaped the angel. “Couple decades, maybe. I fancied a change. Do you like it?” 

Aziraphale looked up from the bolts of cloth. Crawly wished he could read that impassive, serene face. “It suits you,” said Aziraphale. “Though, don’t you think the kohl rather draws _more_ attention to your eyes?” 

Crawly scowled. He would have liked to bask in the compliment longer, so warm on him like sunshine. “You’ve already come to my rescue, you don’t need to rub it in.”

“I don’t think I’d call it a rescue.” Aziraphale nodded at the vendor and stepped away from the stall. “I’d call it… keeping the peace,” he said pleasantly. 

“Keeping the peace?” Crawly scoffed. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, angel. They might have discorporated me.”

“And that was quite inconvenient the last time it happened,” said Aziraphale. “Your interim replacement was simply ghastly.”

“Yeah, ghastly is kind of Andras’s thing. We were all surprised he didn’t stay topside longer. He got a bloody medal for how quickly he turned the humans to slaughtering each other.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone up here,” Aziraphale said breezily. “Oh! Just _look_ at these figs.” 

Crawly blinked, trying to decide if he was completely misinterpreting what he thought the angel was implying. The figs were beautiful, perfectly ripe, and before he could think on it any longer, Aziraphale had purchased a bagful and was thrusting one of them into his hands. Crawly smiled. “So you think this form suits me?”

———————————

What didn’t suit him, anymore, was the name Lucifer had given him. _Crawly_, and the sigil that represented his true name, which his corporation was unable to pronounce. Neither of those fit him quite right, he thought, and shouldn’t he get to decide? Hell had been no freedom, no matter what they had been promised. No, the only freedom he’d ever found was here on Earth. He didn’t choose to Fall, he didn’t choose to be a demon, but this he could choose.

Two thousand years on, he and Aziraphale will watch a play, and a charming young actor in a dress will ask, _what’s in a name,_ and Crowley will hide his pleasure as the angel smiles benevolently in his direction. 

———————————

He learned how to do it on his own, curious and clever thing that he was, just as he had pieced together nuclear fusion, and sobering up, and expressing himself sartorially to make damnation look _cool_. He kept telling Hastur, optics were everything. 

Eventually exhaustion (existential, more than physical) won out over the uneasy feeling that sleep had left behind, and he willed himself into unconsciousness again. And each more often than not, he awoke unsettled, disturbed, or just once, screaming. In his dreams he was back in Heaven, trying to do the sacred work he had once been assigned, but the starstuff burned the flesh of his hands away, down to the very bone, until even that crumbled into dust. Or he and Aziraphale would cross paths in China, and the angel would do something disarmingly decent like breathlessly invite him to share the _finest_, most _delicate_ tea with him (this had really happened) — but instead of tea leaves, Aziraphale had plucked feathers from his own wings to steep in the hot water (this had not). 

Most frequently of all, he was Falling, terrified and angry and ashamed.

That was an exhausting way to feel, and defeated the purpose of sleep, and during one instance of such a dream, he thought, _”Not again.”_ And as easy as anything, he unfurled his blackened wings, caught the air, and flew. 

He awoke feeling much like he had when he’d discovered how to physically pleasure his corporation — quite proud of himself and certain that he was an unparalleled genius. 

From then on, his dreams were his domain. Anything he wanted, any characters or scenario, could be instantly broadcasted on the inside of his eyelids. Occasionally he dreamed of power, or vengeance, or soft peaceful things like warm beaches, or starlit nights, or— 

He would die before he’d admit it aloud, but Aziraphale was a key player in most of the stories he told himself. He’d gotten overexcited early on, and in his dream he’d seduced the angel. Aziraphale had been pleased and flattered, and lavished him with compliments like _”cunning, clever serpent”_, and had allowed Crowley to touch him, to kiss him. This time Crowley awoke hard and aching; he tended to himself with a rough, desperate hand, choking around the angel’s name as he spent himself. It was _brilliant_. He could do it every night if he wanted to. 

The next time he saw the angel in person — generous smile, sharp words — his guts twisted into something like guilt. The difference between imagining and dreaming wasn’t much to him, but if Aziraphale ever found out he had become a puppet of sorts in Crowley’s depraved mind, Crowley suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it at all. As far as he knew, the angel had no interest in sex, let alone sex with him. And Aziraphale very nearly _trusted_ him, only Satan knew why. Crowley wanted to be someone Aziraphale could trust. 

However, he was a being of temptation, and couldn’t resist completely, so he reworked the stories into something almost, if not entirely beyond reproach. In his dreams, he was (even more) suave and handsome, and never stumbled over his words. If Aziraphale was having a problem, he’d pop round and say something witty to cheer him up, and provide a fiendishly clever solution. Or if the angel was in some sort of scrape, he’d miraculously appear to save the day. Aziraphale would be impressed with him, heap him with praise, and let him see him home. Maybe a kiss at the door, if he was feeling particularly daring.

Many centuries later, the humans invented cinema. In film after film, emotionally detached men smoothly dispatched their enemies, averting the crisis and winning over the feisty, coquettish girl. Crowley took credit for these, explaining that Hollywood was a lodestone for damnable souls. He had nothing to do with it, but he figured he practically invented the concept — even if Crowley wasn’t a man, and Aziraphale wasn’t a girl, it was close enough. 

————————————

He’d been on Earth for so long that it was easy now to think of his corporation as _himself_. Discorporations happened less and less these days, so his body was broken in and comfortable, like a favorite pair of jeans. It was attractive, by human standards, and malleable enough that he could make a few miraculous tweaks here and there; things like hair length, body shape, the bits between the legs. 

They had all been created as beings of pure light and energy. That was still true, but as they took tangible forms to interact with the physical world, the energy combined with matter to create shifting, hybrid vessels that Lovecraft and Dali could only dream of. When humans saw angels in their true forms, they saw wings upon wings, eyes that could see directly into their souls, wheels of fire driving the universe forward. What they couldn’t recognize, what their limited brains couldn’t interpret, was the sacred geometry of their form, interlocking shapes which held the fabric of space together, or the voices which rang out in octaves beyond human hearing in praise of their Creator. 

Humans who saw angels as they truly were, were either institutionalized or canonized. Humans who saw demons as they truly were, tended to gouge their eyes out, or jump from very high places.

Crowley was a writhing shadow, with night-black wings burning out behind him; he was a serpent with three heads and unblinking, bile-yellow eyes, and mirror-dark scales reflecting and refracting a myriad of sins; he was wreathed in chains that shifted around him and drew closer the more he struggled against them. Strange angles and unholy shapes comprised his frame as entire dimensions were forever closed to him; his true voice was at once a ruinous roar and a tantalizing whisper. 

Yes, he had a good corporation, but it wasn’t truly _him_ any more than the Devil was really a little red imp with a pitchfork. And the fact that this particular model had been designated for him was a bles— a good spot of luck. He didn’t mind being what he was, not really, not anymore. You could get used to anything, in time. But this corporation was the only thing that gave him half of a sliver of a ghost of a chance. If he had appeared in Eden all venom and wretchedness and dark ragged edges, he would have been struck down with a righteous sword immediately. 

_Smitten,_ as it were. 

He knew himself, knew who and what he was, and the voice that vibrated out of his corporation’s mouth and neck and lungs spoke his thoughts, and his words (with so many more kept silent). And Aziraphale knew what he was too; the angel was naive but not stupid. Just as Crowley could catch the occasional glimpse of Aziraphale’s halo — the glimmer of a scepter in his hand, the fluttering of too many wings, the weighted-blanket feeling of serenity — he was sure Aziraphale could sense him in kind. Belly full of poison, scales flickering at his jawline, the black-hole pull of the Pit. 

It must have been the charm of these human forms, the way they made them weak with the suggestion of physicality. The glimmer in an eye, the tugging up or down at the corners of the mouth, the insinuation of a hip or a hand. Seeing was believing, and if seeing a red-haired mostly-male with good cheekbones made it easier for Aziraphale to stomach being around him, Crowley’s cup ran over indeed. 

————————————

He was living on borrowed time. He’d always known that. The Earth has an expiration date, and sooner or later, its number was going to come up. There was a Great Plan, and just because he and the rest had rebelled against her, didn’t mean they weren’t beholden to Her rules in the end. 

The End. 

There were only two ways it could go: either Heaven would triumph, or Hell would. Probably Heaven, he figured. The house always won. 

Hell would never admit that outright, of course. That was shit for morale. But there was an unmistakeable undercurrent of _”or we’ll die trying, take as many of the bastards out with us as we can”_ that Crowley found both refreshingly honest, and horrifying.

He tried not to think about it too much, because whenever he did, his mind couldn’t help but go _there_. Aziraphale was a soldier underneath all his bluster and kindness. And if they met in battle— 

He could see it. It was so unlikely, it was ten million to one, but bless Her if She wouldn’t make it happen on purpose.

Aziraphale would be glorious and splendid and terrifying, wings spread wide, sword aloft and burning, holy light blinding Crowley’s serpent eyes. Crowley would be dark and wretched, spitting and biting, feinting and parrying.

Aziraphale would end him, because it was his duty, even if he had to do it with an apology on his lips. 

Crowley had the instinct for survival, the only thing that allowed him to thrive after his Fall, the only way he had been able to take a bunch of rotten apples and make lemonade, so to speak. He didn’t want to be destroyed. He hadn’t come as far as he did, hadn’t Fallen with stardust burning through his fingers just to get killed in the end. If that was all there was, what was the blessed point? 

He didn’t think he could do it. 

Any other angel, fine. He’d done it before, in the great battle before the Fall. 

He couldn’t do it, coward that he was. It made him sick to even consider.

There had to be a third option.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13K words of Aziraphale being an unreliable narrator... go!

Aziraphale huffed as he followed the well-trod path of his patrol. Back and forth across the Eastern Wall five times, pausing at the Gate for long intervals in between. Then a loop through the Eastern quadrant of the Garden. Repeat. Paradise was supposed to be, well, perfect. Perfection was not meant to be confusing, or frustrating, or challenging. He had a job to do, albeit with minimal instructions: watch over the gate, and make sure the humans were happy and healthy. And he had done just that, he assumed, to everyone’s satisfaction thus far. He hadn’t heard from Head Office at all, and had barely seen the other Guardians since their posting here. No news, as Gabriel liked to say, was good news. 

The appearance of the demon, Aziraphale suspected, was not good news. 

Although Eden was not large (he had flown across from the Eastern Gate to the Western in a matter of minutes, earning a strange look and poor conversation from his counterpart there), he often felt as though he were alone there. And the humans, while foolish and innocent, could look after themselves. Surely they didn’t need supervision all the time, especially not when they laid with one another, making sweet wordless sounds that Aziraphale regarded with a clinical dislike. There was little to relate to there; his corporation didn’t really resemble either of theirs, so there was nothing to be curious about. He gave them their privacy, and wandered the hidden glens and vales of the Garden. 

He was still getting used to being in a body of flesh and blood. He trailed his fingers in the cool little streams, letting tiny fish nibble at them. He stepped softly over mossy stones and wiggled his toes into the rich, warm earth. The feel of the sun on his face and his wings was a joy. It was rather marvelous, experiencing senses in the human way. Limited, of course, but charming nevertheless. He started to understand why they acted as they did, seeking things that felt nice.

He had observed the way the humans nourished their bodies, with things they could forage from the heavy boughs of the trees, or catch with their hands, or with simple tools at the river’s edge. Some of these things they spat out, and some they relished and sought out again. Unlike their other pastime, this was something that fascinated Aziraphale. He knew his corporation did not need sustenance, but he did have all the necessary parts for this activity — a mouth, teeth, and so on. 

The humans seemed to prefer a yellow-orange fruit, blushed by the sun, with a pit in the center. His hand reached up to pluck one from the branch. There was slight resistance, and then the stem snapped, and it was his, firm with a bit of fuzz on the skin, perfectly suited to fit in his hand. He smelled it — sweet, bright — and cautiously took a bite.

Oh, how wonderful, how wise, how subtle, how generous was his Lord! The humans did not exist simply to survive, but to seek out pleasure as they celebrated Her. 

In the bright-flavored juice he tasted the sunlight that had warmed the fruit. In the soft pulp of its flesh was the energy of the tree that bore it. And in the center, there was the earth itself, and the potential of new life. Oh, what glory to Her in this single fruit, and the Garden was full of them! He could scarcely wait to taste another.

And if after that he had stolen a few moments out of each day to sample something from tree, bush, or ground, no one had seemed to notice or mind.

Watch over the gate, and make sure the humans were happy and healthy. Simple enough.

The demon hadn’t come in through the gate, though. Aziraphale _had_ been there at his post, thank you very much, and he was certain the other angels had been at theirs. Dutiful sorts, they were, not likely partaking of the Garden’s delights. Eating didn’t seem wrong, but what if it was? There was a demon here now, and Aziraphale hadn’t known what to do. Alert the others? They would only ask him why he didn’t smite the demon upon first sight, and Aziraphale didn’t have a satisfactory answer for that. 

He had not been frightened. Tense, certainly, but not afraid. Demons were vicious, cruel, devious, but Aziraphale was more than a match for most. He was trained in combat, good with a sword if not overly eager to use it. He was prepared for the demon to challenge him, to lunge at him with fangs and claws; he disliked violence but was prepared to dispatch the thing quickly. 

And then the demon — Crawly — hadn’t attacked. He’d _talked_. He’d said he’d made the stars, sounding almost wistful about it, before he went all defensive. 

Demons weren’t remorseful, he knew that. He could hear Gabriel saying it in a hundred tedious meetings. It couldn’t have been wonder in the demon’s coward-yellow eyes. _”Made the stars?”_ Gabriel would scoff. _”Aziraphale, he was obviously lying to you.”_

Millions of angels had Fallen. It wasn’t impossible.

But that didn’t mean anything now, he told himself. The demon was here; Aziraphale could catch a faint whiff of brimstone on the warm breeze. Here, and certainly up to no good. It was nothing as innocent as stargazing that brought him to Eden. He would find out what it was, and put a stop to it.

As it turned out, the demon was remarkably efficient at making trouble.

———————————————

The first rain went on for a long time, and it wasn’t until after dark that the heavy clouds began to roll away. They had stood in near-silence, watching the figures of Adam and Eve recede toward the horizon, until only the light from Aziraphale’s sword indicated where they were. Aziraphale’s wing ached a bit from holding the same position for so long, but it would have been cruel to withdraw it before the rain abated. Now that the storm was over, he stretched it, shook the water off, and folded it neatly behind his back.

It seemed to occur to Crawly that he should step away, and Aziraphale was grateful for the tact, grateful that he didn’t have to be the one to say it. “Shouldn’t stay topside much longer. Got to report back. I don’t know if _that’s_ what they wanted,” he said, waving a hand vaguely out at the desert where the humans wandered, “but I’m going to call it a huge success.”

“How nice for you,” Aziraphale said, a sarcastic bite in his voice. “Think you’ll get a promotion?”

Crawly scowled at him. “I dunno. Maybe they’ll assign me more fieldwork. It beats digging pits for the damned.”

“There wouldn’t _be_ any damned if not for that little stunt you pulled just now,” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, but the whole concept of damning wasn’t my idea, was it? I already told you I think the whole thing’s ridiculous. None of this is up to us, it’s all Her, bloody blasted—“

“I’ll thank you not to blaspheme in front of me, demon,” Aziraphale said severely. Crawly paused in his tirade, but he wasn’t finished, oh no. 

“If you think so little of me, why’d you… y’know.” He gestured at Aziraphale’s wing.

“Probably better to leave it alone,” Aziraphale murmured. He wasn’t sure himself.

“Come on, angel, you—”

“I don’t know!” he snapped. The demon thought too much, said too much, but for a second time fell silent, and this time remained that way. Aziraphale shifted on his feet and looked skyward; he nervously considered whether the Almighty was watching. “The stars are coming out,” he said. Neutral. A simple observation of fact. 

“So they are,” Crawly said. He turned his face upward to look, sending his long auburn curls tumbling down his back between his wings. Aziraphale made himself look away again. There was nothing wrong with being curious, was there? You didn’t see a demon every day. Still, looking was decidedly not smiting, and smiting was the right thing to do, so looking was wrong. _This_ was wrong. The trouble was, it didn’t feel as wrong as it ought to. The demon was dangerous, surely, but not a threat to _him_.

The night was still. Aziraphale turned their conversation over in his mind. _Come on, angel,_ Crawly had said. He mustered up the courage to break the silence. “My name is Aziraphale.”

“Hm?” said Crawly.

“You called me _angel_ before.”

A quirked brow. “You called me _demon_. And I told you my name already.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I did.”

“S’alright. Not ashamed of it,” Crawly said mildly. “So, Aziraphale… what does that mean, are you a Throne, or a Seraph, or…?”

“A Principality, actually,” said Aziraphale, puffing up his wings a bit. “And you?”

Crawly shrugged and looked back toward the canopy of stars. “I’m just me,” he said. “No one important.” Then he brightened. “Well, not yet, anyway. Might change after today.” 

Aziraphale made a huff of displeasure. “Yes, about that. Didn’t you say you had to be getting back for your report?”

Crawly’s easy smile morphed into a sneer faster than you could say _holier-than-thou_. “Yeah. Best be popping back Downstairs.” 

Black scales began to speckle his face; his wings melted into his spine. Aziraphale winced and took a small step back. Within moments, a huge black snake lay coiled where Crawly had stood. Only his eyes remained the same, and they regarded him coldly. 

“See you around, angel. You’re doing an ace job up here, keep it up,” the snake hissed, and slithered down the wall. 

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His corporation felt unhappy with him, like the time he’d eaten underripe fruit and given himself a stomachache. He’d finally driven the demon out, but it felt either premature or much, much too late. Crawly hadn’t wanted to leave. Why?

To gloat, of course, he told himself. To blaspheme in front of an angel of the Lord and try to convince him that he was right. To try to tempt him. He’d been wrong, perhaps he _had_ been tempted. The demon was terribly dangerous. He was an Enemy.

Give a demon an inch, they’ll take a mile, he thought. Give a demon your wing…

Well, he was gone now, and surely that was for the best. There was still a gap in the wall where Adam and Eve had left the Garden, and it wasn’t going to conceal itself before dawn.

———————————————————————

The reprimand he had been expecting never came. In fact, Aziraphale was only given _more_ assignments down on Earth, as its mortal inhabitants procreated and expanded their territories. He began to grow quite fond of them, though he tried not to get too close. Their lives were so short and it wouldn’t do to get attached. Aziraphale had existed for time immeasurable before the world was created, and would likely go on existing for time immeasurable after it was destroyed, when Heaven inevitably triumphed over Hell. Still, there was beauty to be found in their impermanence, like the flowers that bloomed, only to wither away in the summer heat or the first touch of winter’s frost.

Seasons changed and stretched into years, like clockwork. Reliable, dependable. The humans were so good at discovering patterns in the world around them, and deciphering what they meant. Or, sometimes they thought they saw patterns where none existed, and stymied their progress for entire lifetimes, while Aziraphale grimaced and tried to be patient. They were only children, after all. A species in infancy, barely able to stand on its feet. But over generations, they grew up. They learned how to track the movements of animals and follow the stars to lands of plenty. How to build all manner of things — baskets, boats, carts, permanent residences. They developed agriculture and animal husbandry, and systems of communication. Aziraphale watched in fascination in Sumer as traders and landowners pressed wedge-shaped reeds into clay to keep their records. Fascination turned to delight in Egypt, as they devised a way to record the sounds of their spoken language, that others could read it hours, days, or years later as though the writer were talking directly to them

As the agrarian way of life caught on, there was often enough extra food that the humans could take special care in how they prepared it. Aziraphale accepted gifts of millet and citrons and tea, and rice grown on the banks of the Yangtze. Across the ocean, the humans discovered that certain plants grew better and more efficiently together than separate; they made countless foodstuffs from the maize and her two sisters. In Akkadia, they had over twenty varieties of cheese. Aziraphale tried them all.

Storytellers had always been important in these cultures. Sometimes they were preachers or holy men, sometimes they were grandmothers, sometimes they were keen observers of the skies and of human behavior. The stories humans told each other mattered — a tale with a moral that might inspire similar behavior in its audience, a frightening story to keep children out of harm’s way, a narrative about the natural world so that they might understand their place in it. They heard these tales as children, and passed them on to their own children. On many occasions, Aziraphale had earned food, or lodgings, or a place at a warm fire by telling tales, and those who were lucky enough to listen felt a peace and comfort that lingered long after he departed. He loved stories; loved hearing them, loved telling them. 

There was power in stories. And when many people gathered to tell the same story…

The first time he saw something that might be called theatre was in Abydos, during the month of Khoiac. The crowd gathered at the temple of Osiris to see a re-enactment of the god’s tragic and triumphant story. Humans put on special costumes and masks to transform into the god himself, his wife, his son, his jealous brother. Aziraphale observed in wonder as he was caught up in the tale. The actor-priests would not depict the god’s death, believing so much in the power of words to become truth, but a priestess portraying the goddess Isis delivered poetry and prayers, and the audience wept with her. She temporarily resurrected Osiris through magic and impregnated herself with a son, who would go on to avenge his father and defeat his enemies. The crowd roared when Horus declared himself victorious, and the spectacle quickly turned into a funeral processional wherein Osiris would be symbolically lain to rest. 

This sort of thing, he thought, could really catch on someday.

————————————————————————

His superiors did not require frequent meetings of him, but when he did ascend to Heaven for a check-in, it was usually a quick affair. A box for Gabriel to tick. 

“Things are looking good down there, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said cheerfully. “You’re doing great work. Just great work!” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said modestly, “thank you. It’s always nice to be recognized.” This was where the meeting usually ended.

“Of course, this is all just the setup,” continued Gabriel. “You know, letting the humans get a handle on things before the real work begins.” He unfolded his large hands from the white table, and consulted a file. “In about a thousand years or so, the Almighty wants to send a prophet, to start telling them how it is.”

“Oh? And what will that entail?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s still in development. Something about writing down the Almighty’s rules on stone tablets. Do the humans even know how to read? Or is that something we should be working on?” He shook his head, managing to look confident and bewildered at the same time.

Aziraphale nearly shot up out of his chair. “As it happens!” he began, then tried again more calmly. “As it happens, there are several cultures working out writing systems as we speak! I’ve been helping them to harness this power for good. I was planning on traveling to Ur next, there’s a poet there of great talent, whom I believe has the potential to unite her father’s empire through her writing.”

Gabriel grinned brightly enough to put the sun to shame. “Excellent! That’s the stuff, Aziraphale. I always tell the others, you know what you’re doing down there. You really _get_ these humans. Oh, and before you go. Speaking of Down There,” he said with a grimace, “has that demon been giving you any trouble? Crawler, or something?”

“Crawly,” Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself. “No trouble at all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

———————————————————

Enheduanna was the daughter of Sargon, who had conquered many lands in the Mesopotamian region. More importantly to Aziraphale, she was a poet of superior skill and subtlety. She was the high priestess of the temple in Ur, where she worshipped the Almighty in the form of the goddess Inanna. And oh, the words! Aziraphale had been told a fragment, recited lovingly by a woman who had completed a pilgrimage to the temple to give birth.

“Neglect and care, raising and bowing down are yours, Inanna.   
To build a house, to create a woman's chamber, to possess implements, to kiss a child's lips are yours, Inanna.   
To run, to race, to plot and to succeed are yours, Inanna.   
To interchange the brute and the strong and the weak and the powerless is yours, Inanna.   
To interchange the heights and valleys, and raising up and reducing, is yours, Inanna.   
To give the crown, the throne and the royal scepter is yours, Inanna.”

Again and again, the mother whispered the words to her baby, who slept at her breast. He had to hear more, and now that he’d received Gabriel’s enthusiastic approval, he planned to spend as much time at the temple as he liked. 

Disguised as a pilgrim, he was welcomed by a pretty, androgynous heirodule and shown to a tiny cell. 

“Food is prepared in the mornings and the evenings,” they said dutifully. “You may make an offering in the cella at any time. The high priestess will pray in the courtyard at dusk. And should you wish it, look for anyone with ribbons, and they will be glad to tend to you.” They toyed with one of the ornate ribbons in their own hair. Aziraphale sternly told his corporation not to blush.

“Thank you, my dear, you’ve been most helpful,” and ushered them out.

Temple fare twice a day simply wouldn’t do. He began unpacking the parcels he’d carefully purchased in the city: creamy cheeses, crisp bread, glistening duck meat, sweet mashed turnips, succulent dates. And wine, rather a lot of wine. The imported wine was expensive here, but well worth the cost. He glanced at the bedroll in the corner and it obediently turned into something just this side of decadently plush. He laid his papyrus scrolls out for later perusal, humming to himself happily. Everything was perfect.

When the sun was low, he found his way to the courtyard, where devotees of all kinds had gathered to hear Enheduanna speak. Many were androgynous, like the heirodule, wearing a mix of men’s and women’s attire. Some held weapons, for the goddess of life and fertility was also a goddess of justice and war. There were half a dozen pilgrims like himself, simply dressed. Many in the crowd had ribbons in their hair, serving equally the goddess and the visitors to the temple. 

The high priestess stepped out, flanked by her attendants, and the crowd hushed to listen.

“The great-hearted mistress, the impetuous lady, proud among the Anuna gods and pre-eminent in all lands,” she invoked.

“The great daughter of Suen, exalted among the Great Princes, the magnificent lady who gathers up the divine powers of heaven and earth and rivals great An, is mightiest among the great gods -- she makes their verdicts final.”

What power in her words! She would unite the kingdoms in worship, in devotion, in love. Aziraphale was rapt with attention. 

“The Anuna gods crawl before her august word whose course she does not let An know; he dares not proceed against her command. She changes her own action, and no one knows how it will occur.”

Something was… off. He had almost missed the scent in the air, beneath the heavy-sweet incense, but it was unmistakable: brimstone.

“She makes perfect the great divine powers, she holds a shepherd's crook, and she is their magnificent pre-eminent one. She is a huge shackle clamping down upon the gods of the Land. Her great awesomeness covers the great mountain and levels the roads.”

Oh, blast. Crawly was beside her — right beside her! — acting as one of her attendants, and doing a very poor job of hiding his face. _He must know I’m here too,_ Aziraphale thought. 

He completely missed the rest of the prayer. What was Crawly doing here? He’d really stuck his foot in it this time. Gabriel expected a success, after he’d gone and told him all about this idea, how brilliant of him. He hadn’t even seen Crawly since the Flood. Was that why Gabriel had mentioned Crawly? Had he somehow known he would be here?

Enheduanna finished her prayer, her arms high and her eyes wet with emotion. Aziraphale glared at Crawly, who had the audacity to wiggle his fingers in a wave as he followed the priestess away.

In his cell, Aziraphale panicked before deciding to cope in the two best ways he knew: reading and eating. The dates seemed best for eating one-handed as he pored over his scrolls with the other; he had savored a half dozen sweet morsels before his cell door abruptly swung open.

“What’s a nice angel like you doing in a heathen temple like this?” Crawly said, no doubt in a way he thought was very smooth. He paused in the doorway and took in the new decor, the smell of rich food. “What the heaven did you do to this place? You are aware that this is a house of worship, yes?” 

Aziraphale’s clean hand slammed down on the little table as he rose. “I should be asking you the same question, Crawly, what are _you_ doing here?” 

Crawly closed the door and looked at him as though he were very stupid. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m working.” 

“Dressed like that?” 

Crawly’s red hair was long, and twisted and braided elaborately, with a thick braided band around his head. He wore large gold rings in his ears, and his tunic, while plain, was clearly of very fine material. His neck was adorned with a showy necklace of silver and lapis lazuli; his eyes were rimmed in kohl. 

“You don’t like it?” Crawly said breezily. “I know it’s not my usual color. I could take some of it off, if you like.”

The look Aziraphale gave him had turned lesser demons into so much sludge on the ground. “Talking like that, I’m surprised you don’t have ribbons in your hair.”

“It’s not that kind of work. Not this time, anyway,” Crawly said. For the second time today, Aziraphale told his corporation not to blush, but it didn’t seem to listen. Crawly threw himself on the bed and sighed. “What about you? You’re no pilgrim, what are you really doing here?”

“I certainly shan’t say, not with you lurking around.”

Crawly scoffed. “Is it official?”

Aziraphale supposed it was, at this point. Gabriel knew he was here, and he would expect a successful report back. “Yes. You?”

“Yup,” said Crawly. “No way around it. So let’s just keep out of each others’ way, yeah? Then we can both make our bosses happy.”

Aziraphale sank back down onto his chair. “I suppose.”

“So what’s the assignment? Come on, you know I don’t really _care_ what daft thing they want you to do. I just have to know so I don’t interfere with it.”

Aziraphale hesitated. Crawly sounded reasonable, _too_ reasonable. The demon’s hair was spilled over the pillow, his head tilted back so the column of his throat was bare and vulnerable. He was slim and golden and— Aziraphale closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. Demons weren’t beautiful, they had nothing of the Almighty in them. 

“You’re trying to tempt me,” he said, more softly than he had intended. 

“No, I’m trying to reason with you,” Crawly answered. “This can work out for both of us, no one has to get reprimanded or discorporated, or… hang on.” Aziraphale heard him sit up. “Angel. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes; Crawly’s were fixed upon him. Not golden, not beautiful. Sulfur-yellow, unholy. 

“I’m not trying to tempt you. Swear it on my Master.” A few seconds of silence; Crawly dropped his gaze. “Unless you want me to,” he said quietly. His eyes flicked back up as though he’d had some kind of epiphany, the yellow having spilled completely over the whites. 

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t want that.” 

“‘Course you don’t,” Crawly said. Curtains drew quickly over what had seemed like a flicker of hope. But that was foolish, demons couldn’t experience anything so innocent, _abandon hope_ was written over the gate of Hell itself. He laid back down, stretching his arms behind his head, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “You’re an angel. Couldn’t do, so you’ve nothing to worry about. You were saying, about the job?” 

“Er… well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, but the lump there didn’t budge. “The high priestess is going to use her faith to unite the lands under her father’s rule. I’m here to bless her and ensure that her talents help usher in an age of peace and prosperity.”

“Bugger,” Crawly muttered. He rolled over onto his side to face Aziraphale, which did not help matters in the least. “Isn’t that just my luck? I’m supposed to see that she gets overthrown. Which, before you get all huffy with me, isn’t what I would choose, if it were up to me.”

“Is that so? Why not?”

“I like it here, don’t you? They’re so… so free.” He waved his slender hand in time to his words. “No silly rules about how _these_ people have to do this, wear this, act like this, and _those_ people have to do something else. You can just do what you like. Be a little bit of both. Or neither.”

“That’s dangerous thinking, you know.” 

“Yeah. Bad habit.” He flopped back down on the bed. “Maybe we can still make it work. Is yours time-sensitive?”

“Not as such. But success is expected, you see. I can’t fail.” 

“Mine is. There’s a usurper who’s going to rebel against the king, desecrate the temple, all that. I’m the one inside who lets them in.” 

“Crawly!” 

“Why do you care so much about a heathen temple anyway? Shouldn’t you be glad it’s going to be desecrated?”

“All earnest worship glorifies the Almighty,” Aziraphale said sagely. Crawly made a sound as if he were gagging. “But on a personal level, I’ve taken a keen interest in her poetry, and in human storytelling, and writing in particular.” He gestured at the papyrus scrolls on his table. 

“In food, too, looks like,” Crawly teased. “Quite the spread you’ve got there.” He flicked his tongue and looked around. “What kind of wine is that?” 

“Imported from the Zagros mountains.” Aziraphale drew a jar from his traveling bag. 

“Well, if you’re inclined to sharing, I’m sure we can come up with a creative solution to this little impasse.” 

Aziraphale paused, then pulled the stopper from the jar. 

It was Aziraphale’s idea, and Crawly delighted in its simplicity. After Lugal-Ane overthrew the priestess, she would beseech her goddess for mercy and vengeance, and Aziraphale would see to it that her prayers were answered. The usurper would be driven out, and Enheduanna reinstated. Drunk on the wine and their own cleverness, they talked and laughed until Aziraphale slumped low in his chair and Crawly started hissing his sibilants.

The next evening, he steadfastly refused to look at Crawly, well aware that the demon was stealing glances, well aware of the flush on his own cheeks, as Enheduanna raised her voice in prayer. 

“My lady, mercy, compassion, I am yours! This will always be so!   
May your heart be soothed towards me!   
Your divinity is resplendent in the Land!   
My body has experienced your great punishment.   
Lament, bitterness, sleeplessness, distress, separation.  
Mercy, compassion, care, lenience and homage are yours, and to cause flooding,   
to open hard ground and to turn darkness into light.”

———————————————

And so it went. Every few hundred years, he’d suddenly catch a whiff of brimstone and rich black earth, and there Crawly would be. A thrill went through him every time, half excitement and half fear. Would this be the time they were discovered in nearly amiable conversation? How much of his stalwart walls would Crawly chip away at today? Would Crawly be talkative or taciturn, sarcastic or patient, bitter or cheerful? 

They’d commiserate. Demanding, petty bosses, unreasonable work conditions. Or, mostly Crawly would complain, and Aziraphale would try not to. His superiors didn’t understand much about his work on Earth, but they were wise, and he was sure they knew best. 

“Oh, you— you’ll like this,” Crawly said. “You like the written word so much, listen to this. My side’s decided they want _actual_ reports now. Written-down ones.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Of course you have to do reports, everyone has to do reports.”

“Everyone has to do reports,” Crawly mocked. “What in the literal infernal blazes is the point of a rebellion if you’re going to make your people do _paperwork_?”

They’d keep each other apprised of current events. They’d spar, and argue, and occasionally share a bottle. It took quite a lot of alcohol to affect their supernatural constitutions, and Aziraphale made sure to keep his wits about him. Crawly didn’t seem to mean him any harm; even at his nastiest he was more hiss than venom, yet, he was constantly trying to tempt Aziraphale. A suggestive word, a hint of blasphemy, a gaze held a second too long, lips wrapped around a bottle. Aziraphale would grow warm, look away, pretend not to notice.

Once, Aziraphale ate a bowl of olives with his wine. They were green, meaty, rich with oil that begged to be pressed from them. Crawly had declined Aziraphale’s offer to share, but had tracked his every move. His eyes had followed Aziraphale’s hand from bowl to lips, watched as he chewed, then followed again as he carefully removed the pit from his mouth and placed it in a separate bowl, again and again. When Aziraphale had noticed, pausing in his recounting of a recent blessing he’d done, he’d felt uncomfortable in a way he didn’t understand. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said crossly. 

“Like what?” Crawly asked. “I was listening to your story. Are you going to tell me the rest or not?” Liar, he was so obvious sometimes. Aziraphale could hear the hint of guilt in his voice, not for what he had done, but for being caught. 

“Like I’m a mark of yours. I’m not a human, you’re wasting your time.”

Crawly actually laughed. “Sure, angel,” he said, shoving his hair back with a slender hand, and grinning in a way that completely failed to convey good spirits. “I’m the one doing the tempting.”

After the events at Ur, it had angered him. How dare the demon continue his attempts after Aziraphale had said no? How foolish did the demon think he was, that he could keep denying it? Then, as their meetings continued but the temptations went no further, anger became mild irritation. Perhaps he was immune. He was made of stern stuff, of course he could resist demonic wiles. Or maybe Crawly didn’t mean to do it, maybe he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t be upset with the demon for being what he was, that simply wouldn’t be fair. He tried to put it out of his mind.

Crawly didn’t stop watching him. And Aziraphale wasn’t about to let a pesky demon prevent him from enjoying something, so he let him. 

———————————————

It took an hour on his hands and knees, referencing and cross-referencing texts painted on silks, symbols carved into amulets, diagrams painstakingly copied onto scrolls. He stood and regarded the complex circle he had drawn in chalk and anointed with sacrificial blood (he liked leg of lamb very much, so it served a dual purpose). The sigils were highly ornate, his own invented combination of occult magic and heavenly law: Hell’s power to bind the demon, Heaven’s power to defeat him. He wasn’t sure at first if it was even possible to use the two together, but he finally had it. He was certain. 

Head Office had sent him a memo, which contained nothing Aziraphale did not already know, and which read:

\--

Attn: The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Agent of Heaven on Earth  
From: The Archangel Gabriel & Associates  
Re: The Demon Andras, Marquis of Hell, Commander of Thirty Legions

We write to bring to your attention the actions and crimes of the Demon Andras, Marquis of Hell, Commander of Thirty Legions, against humanity and the Lord our God, including but not limited to:  
1\. Disguising himself as an owl-headed rider on a black wolf and terrorizing the populace  
2\. Sowing discord among human leadership to overthrow no less than five local governments  
3\. Inciting bloodbaths in no less than 23 towns and settlements

Because your service on Earth up to the present time has been exemplary, we will allow you seven Earth days to resolve this matter. If this is beyond your capabilities, we will divert additional resources and personnel as needed, and place a formal note in your file. 

\--

Aziraphale was already very much aware of these facts. Crawly had gotten himself discorporated by an overzealous mob a month ago. Aziraphale had only found out because his replacement was a literal nightmare. Andras stalked by night on his huge black wolf, armed with a sword and spear, and all around him, humans fell into a frenzy of violence. Peaceful communities had torn each other limb from limb using little more than farming implements and their teeth. Aziraphale had caught a glimpse of him just once, trying to see what he was up against, and immediately knew that he was out of his league. 

This would be his third attempt to summon and bind the demon Andras, and banish him back to Hell. 

The first time, nothing had happened at all. The second time, he had summoned the wrong demon, a small, nervous thing who resembled a rabbit; Aziraphale had banished him with an exasperated wave of his hand. 

It had to work this time. If it didn’t, Gabriel would send down a team, perhaps even make an appearance himself, and then Aziraphale would have some explaining to do. For instance, he would have to explain that he had failed because his day-to-day activities almost never required grappling with any demonic forces, because he had an unspoken agreement with said demonic force to stay out of each other’s hair, unless there was some good wine to be drunk, in which case, said demonic force might look him up if he were in the area.

The whole thing was a mess. Aziraphale had been enjoying himself immensely in Athens — the plays, the philosophy, the food — and just wanted to go back to the way things were. He would get it right this time.

He triple-checked the circle. Three hundred sixty degrees of perfection that only an ethereal hand could have drawn. A nine-pointed star criss-crossed the circle, with a dab of sacrificial blood at each point, one for each of the Nine Circles of Hell. Overlaid on it was a seven-pointed star, for the Seven Archangels, where he would seal the circle with his own blood — but not yet. In the center was Andras’ seal, which would conceivably draw him into the trap. 

It was this part that had been giving him the trouble. Demons’ seals were ornate things, and human knowledge of them was limited. The accounts that humans kept of them were sketchy and unreliable, and often it was frankly impossible to tell if the writer had been driven mad by the demon, or had been that way from the start. Aziraphale had miracled himself across four continents over the last week in search of semi-reliable sources. He had studied mystical texts and demonic grimoires and added a bit of his own touch. Today was the sixth day. Tomorrow he would respond to the memo with one of two possible replies.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t be able to return it at all. Perhaps he would die, and his superiors would discover this chimera of occult and ethereal magics here on the stone floor of his lodgings, and wonder where they had went wrong with him.

The circle was exactly right, every sigil and sign written as they should be, not a line or curl out of place. Even the forbidden ones, which were dangerous to know, let alone to draw, had been recreated in Aziraphale’s strong chalkwork. As long as he had drawn up the seal correctly, it would work. He stepped out of the circle, lit the candles at north, south, east, and west, and used a sharp blade to make a cut on his thumb. Careful not to smudge the chalk, he squeezed a drop of blood onto the seven corners of the Heavenly star. “Steady, steady,” he murmured to himself. 

He began to speak the words.

”I summon thee, Sixty-Third Spirit. I summon thee, Marquis of Hell. I summon thee, Lord of Owls. I summon thee, Wolf Rider. I summon thee, Andras. By rank, title, and name, I know thee and call thee hence.”

The air was knocked from his lungs. The candles flickered but the miracles he had placed upon them kept them lit. The demon was there! His back was to Aziraphale so he could not see his face; only huge brown wings tipped with blood hid his nakedness. 

_”Who summons me?”_ the demon trilled. It was a soft melodious voice, laid over the harshness of scraping stones.

“I, the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, obedient servant of the Almighty Lord, summon and bind thee in this circle. Thy name is known to me, thy purpose is known to me. Thou shalt obey.”

The demon’s great owl-head rotated to face him. Aziraphale felt his blood run cold as huge round eyes fell lamp-like upon him. Horrifyingly, the eyes stayed fixated on him as Andras’s body turned. 

_“Little Principality,”_ Andras crooned. _“Thou art my Adversary on Earth? How sweet, how small.”_

Aziraphale stood firm. “Behold, here be the signs and the names. I conjure thee, and with power command thee. I conjure thee and exorcise thee from this Earth. In the name of the Almighty Lord who created thee, and who cast thee down into Hell, so I cast thee down.”

Andras spread his wings wide, and Aziraphale saw that his entire body was smeared and scabbed with blood. His wingspan brushed the edges of the circle, and he hissed as he fought the painful binding. 

Aziraphale pulled his own wings into the Earthly plane, let a bit more of his power show. The room brightened when his halo emerged; the pupils of Andras’s enormous eyes shrank.

_”Pretty little angel, show me thy light that I may feast upon it,_ said Andras. He reached behind his back and drew a sword from the ether. He scraped it upon the stone floor toward the chalk circle.

“Let the Almighty arise, and let thou that hateth Her flee before Her face,” said Aziraphale. “Here be the signs and the names.” 

The blade scraped the chalk line of the circle and left a mark. Owls could not smile, but Andras was not an owl. The demon smiled. 

Aziraphale let more of his true self through the confines of his corporation. The circle began to reinforce and glow: white for sigils of Heaven, red for sigils of Hell, golden where he had placed his own power. Andras became tangled in the web that Aziraphale had created. “As smoke vanishes, so shalt thou vanish away. As wax melteth before the fire, so shalt the wicked perish at the presence of the Almighty.” 

_”Thou art not the Almighty, little angel,”_ Andras sneered. _“Thou art no one, and I shall drag thy soul back to Hell as a prize for my Master to defile and consume.”_ He struggled against the invisible bonds so hard that Aziraphale feared he might tear the whole building apart if he broke free.

Blood was ringing in his ears and his spirit sang out with divine Love. He was so close, just a little more… “I name thee Andras, I name thee Marquis of Hell, I name thee Lord of Owls, I name thee Overthrown, I name thee Damnèd, I name thee Dust!” He repeated the condemnation again and again, louder and louder. The demon shrieked and flapped his wings and lunged at Aziraphale with long talons—

And was gone.

Aziraphale shuddered and breathed for long minutes, half-expecting the demon to come crashing through his door. When he felt safe, he let his light recede and tucked his wings away; he snuffed out the candles but left the circle for now. At his desk, he wrote a precise and detailed account of how he had summoned and banished the demon, including a scale drawing of the binding circle. When the ink was dry, he carefully rolled the papers into a scroll and placed them in a small chest, which he locked and put away. He then composed his memo to Head Office.

\--

Attn: The Archangel Gabriel & Associates  
From: The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Agent of Heaven on Earth  
Re: The Demon Andras, Marquis of Hell, Commander of Thirty Legions

The Demon Andras, Marquis of Hell, Commander of Thirty Legions, has been banished back to Hell. Please write again if I may be of further service.

\--

He sent the memo off with a thought, but waited until the dawn to miracle away the circle.

———————————————

Aziraphale needed to make the Effort in order to visit the library.

The Baths of Trajan were a sprawling complex containing multiple pools, saunas, exercise rooms, and most importantly, several exedrae stuffed with manuscripts and scrolls. The promise of browsing those shelves and niches had drawn him there; he had looked forward to spending quality time in the beautiful facility, just him and the books. 

Then, he had run into human acquaintances, who insisted that he join them for a day’s relaxation and cleansing in the baths.

Humans expected him to have all the usual parts, and after that first awkward incident, he decided it was easier to manifest genitals than to miracle the humans into believing that the smoothness between his legs was perfectly normal. He never did anything thoughtlessly, so he tried a variety of configurations and shapes in the privacy of his domus. He rather liked the neatness of the set most human women had — everything tucked away, nice and tidy — but that wouldn’t do here. The women’s baths were separate, and he did not wish to be perceived as a eunuch. 

No, after several thousand years of disguising himself as a human male, that set seemed to make the most sense. There were shapes and sizes to consider there, as well. Although he loved fine things, he was never showy. He chose a set that seemed proportionate to his corporation: soft sac dusted with white-gold hair, a shaft laid gently over it, girthy but not long. It all hung beneath the soft swell of his belly, looking quite natural, he thought. And the look was what mattered, it was all for show.

The baths were _exquisite_. Humans really did find the most brilliant ways to wring every last drop pleasure from their brief lives. 

Several times a week, he would enter the apodyterium to undress. “Bless you, dear boy,” he would say to the capsarius who took his clothes; the boy would walk on air all day and refrain from the petty thievery so common in those places. He would sit on the heated bench in the pleasantly warm air of the tepidarium, letting his corporation get used to the temperature. Often he met friends there, but he would urge them on without him. He was in no hurry. An hour or more later, he would move to the caldarium, with its hot pool, where he would soak until he very nearly felt light-headed from the steam, and his fingers and toes became wrinkled. Then, on to the shock of cold water that left him feeling rejuvenated and alert. 

He would finish back in the tepidarium, and allow himself to be anointed with sweet-smelling oil by an attendant. Then he would visit the library and read until the torch burned out. How many times had he enjoyed this particular experience, almost ritualistic in its order and precision? This time should be no different. 

It wasn’t until the unctor was dabbing oil at his temples that he noticed the young man’s hair. Deep auburn, tied neatly with a cord at the back of his neck, but he had green eyes, not golden. A slave from lands far away, then. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he felt relief or disappointment. The unctor gently lifted his arm to rub oil underneath, then applied some at the crease of his thigh. Last was a gentle dab at the soles of his feet. That auburn head, bowed before him… Aziraphale’s cock twitched to life, apparently having decided of its own accord that it was no longer purely decorative. It was too much to bear, the idea of Crawly — no, _Crowley_ now — bowed before him, tending to him, almost worshipful.

He would never, Aziraphale told himself. He would find it disgusting, repulsive. It went against everything the demon was.

A forbidden thought arose, along with a part of his anatomy that suddenly discovered it had the function. _He would. He would smirk and tease, but he would do it, if you asked it of him._

The slave paid him no mind; states of arousal were common in the baths. Aziraphale miracled the erection away anyway, embarrassed. It barely atoned for the indiscretion, but he said a quick prayer for the young man, who would find himself able to purchase his freedom within the year. 

Now that this particular switch had been flipped, now that he knew he had this ability, there was no going back without removing the whole setup. And he had put so much time into it, he was loath to get rid of it. He thought back to Adam and Eve. They were now long dead, and he hadn’t the heart to check Heaven’s registries to see where they ended up. Regardless, they had once been so full of life, and they had celebrated that life in each others’ arms, as often as they liked. 

It was just another mystery of the Almighty’s creation, he told himself. Humans did it all the time, might as well see what the fuss was about. 

At home, lying on his bed, he palmed himself with a warm, dry hand. It was pleasant but not enough; his member became half-hard at best. Aziraphale frowned at it. It had been so eager before. He remembered the slick fingers of the unctor, the sweet oil rubbed into his skin. A miracle recreated some of that oil on his own hand.

“Ohh,” he breathed. That made all the difference. He tugged at himself clumsily until he was thick and hot in his hand. He pulled the skin back carefully and rubbed his thumb over the blunt head. “Ahh!” A jolt of sensation shot through him and he sucked air in through his teeth as he bucked up into his fist and imagined that it was not his own.

From the darkest corner of his mind: _He would serve you, if you asked him to._ “Oh, oh, forgive me,” he whispered, and gave himself over to it. 

———————————————

“Finish him off, Aziraphale,” Michael said. “You deserve the honor.”

The other demons had been brutes: huge, hulking things with claws that dripped poison and fur that stank of death. Corpse-dust fell from them at every step and every snap of their jaws. They were not Fallen angels, but beasts bred in the depths of Hell by God knew what unholy means. But for all their strength, they weren’t terribly bright. Between Aziraphale and Michael’s power, and an entire font’s worth of holy water, they had been destroyed. 

Crowley, though, was quick and clever; he slithered and coiled and lashed out with the chains that bound his true form, chains that burned bright with hellfire. He had nearly struck Michael with one, and her cheek shone with a burn from the heat of it. Crowley was strong enough to withstand the holiness of Dura-Europos for a time, but the bolt of wrathful light that Michael had flung back in retaliation hit him directly, and forced him to shrink back into his corporation. He writhed on the floor, where tiny tendrils of black smoke snaked up from his back, his elbows, the soles of his shoes. Battered and bloodied, weakened from their battle and the sacred ground, he could do little but snarl up at the angel. 

“Go on,” Crowley taunted. His eyes were wild, his teeth too sharp. Black scales flickered in and out of view as he lost control of his corporation. Perhaps it was dying already, wounded beyond repair. Did Aziraphale hope that? Was that something he _should_ be hoping for? 

Crowley hissed at him, serpent’s tongue coated in venom. He tried to spit it at Aziraphale but only succeeded in dribbling black poison down his own chin. He laughed wetly, defiant and hateful to the end. “Do it already, Adversssary, if you have the ssstomach for it.” 

Michael healed herself with a suffusion of golden light, and again she was as whole and perfect as the day the Almighty created her. “Put that thing out of its misery, Aziraphale.”

He couldn’t hesitate any longer. He seized Crowley by the hair and moved behind him to speak harshly at Crowley’s ear: “Go back to the Pit, demon, and tell your master who it was that sent you there.” Neatly, he cut Crowley’s throat from ear to ear. 

He dropped the dying body to the floor (he did not let himself wince), where it smoked and twitched and gurgled for far too long. The corporation wasn’t Crowley, he knew that, but Crowley remained within it until it lay still. Then Aziraphale felt him go, and it didn’t feel like a victory. It was an absence, a loss, yawning and empty in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Well done,” Michael said. Aziraphale accepted the praise graciously. He had done the right thing by his superiors and his Creator. He had done what needed doing. They were on opposite sides, after all. 

It was eighty years before he saw Crowley again. He sidled up to Aziraphale in a tavern in the furthest northwest corner of the Roman Empire, and ordered an obscenely large drink. “Put it on his bill,” he told the barmaid. 

“Crowley!” He shouldn’t have sounded so relieved, he told himself later, but he couldn’t have stopped himself from smiling if Gabriel had been standing right next to him. “Did you just get back?”

“Couple years ago.” He took long gulps of ale and offered no further explanation.

“What took them so long? Not giving out corporations like they used to?”

“Something like that,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. He could imagine what happened to agents of Hell who failed. 

Aziraphale’s hand clenched around his drink. He focused on that, the curve of the warm glass, the smell and the fizz of fermentation. “I can’t apologize, Crowley.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “Better you than her.” 

_Michael wouldn’t have discorporated you, she would have ended you,_ he doesn’t say, because he can’t stand to hear Crowley talk like this, so many meanings doubled over upon themselves; on these rare occasions when that silver tongue sounds unguarded and raw, he doesn’t know what to believe.

“But you’re buying all my drinks tonight,” Crowley continued, the grim line of his mouth perking up into a sly smile. And Aziraphale could not deny him that.

————————————————

If Aziraphale’s first working theory of his interactions with Crowley was that the demon was trying to tempt him, his second was completely different. Crowley had gradually backed off of the insinuations, and Aziraphale had stopped feeling the serpentine coil in his gut that meant Crowley was working his wiles on him. (Crowley’s wiles persisted in other ways, once a century or so when Aziraphale had a bit of privacy and was feeling especially lonesome, but he worried that was his own shameful weakness more than Temptation.) 

Crowley wasn’t hanging around to tempt him, that much he finally admitted to himself. It stood to reason that they would run into each other now and again, both on assignments to events of historical significance. But every five hundred years would be too coincidental, let alone every hundred, let alone every _fifty_, let alone drinks and a meal every time. 

Black lenses covered Crowley’s eyes nearly all the time. It was a relief, a clear boundary not to be crossed. Crowley was closing himself off, and Aziraphale was grateful for the barrier between them. 

“Easier to blend in,” Crowley had told him once, in their private room in Polonius’s restaurant.

“It’s just us,” Aziraphale had answered. “I know what you are.”

Crowley had looked as gloomy as when Aziraphale had found him drinking alone. “It’s just easier.”

Aziraphale had smiled and nodded, and raised his glass to better days.

The less Aziraphale knew, the better, he was sure of that. What would a demon want to hide? Crowley would not have been ashamed to tempt Aziraphale into lust, into blasphemy, into Falling. It was what demons _did_. A small thought, so antithetical to everything he thought possible, began to take root in his mind. Aziraphale was no one special. There was only one logical reason Crowley would want to be around him, something inherent to his very angelic nature, Of what could a demon possibly be ashamed? 

Wanting redemption.

It was heretical, unthinkable, preposterous. Crowley’s ruined voice still rang in his ears. _Better you than her._ He let himself be discorporated at Aziraphale’s hand. He followed Aziraphale across the globe, gravitated toward him like a magnet, then suddenly reversed polarity and was gone again. The treacherous thought would arise again: _He would do whatever you asked of him._

That had to be it. Crowley wanted to be closer to the Divine. And the closest thing he had to it on Earth was Aziraphale.

It was a thrilling concept, a beautiful one. That a demon could be drawn to the Light, to wish to return to it. A demon, Rising! Through the Almighty, all things were possible. The thought consumed him for several years. He dropped hints over drinks, made allusions to forgiveness, told stories about sinners he’d helped to atone. Crowley gave him absolutely nothing to work with, inscrutable as ever. But Aziraphale was sure, so sure. Crowley was Evil, by definition, but that was just a factual observation, like saying he was tall, or had red hair. He wasn’t actually _evil_. It could happen, if it was what Crowley truly wanted. 

Finally, Aziraphale could no longer stand it. They were phenomenally drunk on rice wine, Crowley was telling a story while smiling at him with unmistakable fondness, and he had to try. 

“I could put in a good word for you,” he blurted out, before he lost his nerve. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow in interest. “I didn’t realize you knew Xiaowen.” 

What had they been talking about? The political upheavals of the Wei region? “No, no, no, no,” Aziraphale said dismissively. “Not with the humans, with… with…” He pointed toward the ceiling. Heaven was not in the heavens, strictly speaking, but it was a useful gesture.

“Might be a good idea if shit ever really hits the fan, to have immunity,” Crowley considered. “I could do the same for you if you wanted. Not now, but maybe when the End Times come around.”

“No, Crowley, not just immunity,” Aziraphale said. His voice was high and plaintive. “I could talk to them, I’m sure they’d be understanding. It’s never happened before, but I know the Almighty is merciful. She would forgive anyone who genuinely repented.”

Crowley gaped for a moment. Then, he began to howl with laughter. Aziraphale laughed nervously too, feeling suddenly very stupid. Only when Crowley spilled his drink on himself could he form words again.

“You’re funny, Aziraphale,” he slurred, still cackling as he shook rice wine from his fingertips. “When did you get ssso funny?” 

Aziraphale forced a smile onto his face. “Oh, you know me. You should have seen your face!”

Crowley wheezed and refilled his glass. He was thoroughly sozzled; maybe he wouldn’t remember the conversation. “Speaking of divine nonsense, though… can you keep a secret?”

Aziraphale’s ears perked back up. He leaned forward so eagerly he almost fell off his chair.

“Y’can’t tell anyone, I could get in seriousss trouble if my people found out.”

“Mum’s the word,” Aziraphale said solemnly. 

“Did I ever tell you I can do blessings?” 

————————————————

The Arrangement was developed in the court of King Canute. This helped Aziraphale come up with the third theory of Crowley: that he would do anything to avoid work. 

“I’m not sure I understand the assignment,” Aziraphale said. “I’m supposed to help the king demonstrate to his courtiers that his power pales before that of the Almighty. Something to do with the ocean.”

“Shouldn’t be hard, one little mortal versus the ocean,” said Crowley. “Makes you wonder why, though. My lot want me to encourage him to round up and execute a bunch of noblemen, so he can stay on the throne.”

“Vicious murder, very original,” said Aziraphale. “But why do they want him in charge, if he’s supposed to be so pious? You’re not supposed to stop me, are you?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not at all, it’s not really about him, see? There’s some kind of plan. He stays in power for a long time, has a couple of kids, but they die off, and then this bloke out of Normandy is supposed to come in—“

“Hold on, this sounds familiar,” Aziraphale interrupted. He loosely recalled a mandatory staff meeting ninety years prior. “He comes in, invades London, and takes the throne.”

“How do you know about this?” Crowley hissed suspiciously. 

“Gabriel was going on about it back in the nine-twenties. Yes, yes, he said something about uniting Engla Land, so this fellow could build several very impressive castles, and pave the way for a massive empire.”

“Right, right, massive empire, that’s what _we_ want! Argh!” 

“Mind the humans, dear,” Aziraphale said under his breath. 

Crowley looked like someone who would be clutching at his hair if he hadn’t spent an hour that morning making it look just the right amount of artfully tousled. “What are we both _doing_ here? Why do our sides want the same thing? Don’t you think that’s strange?”

He did, and he said so. “It must be important, then. Integral to the Great Plan, I’d imagine.” 

“Feh,” Crowley said. 

“If it’s this important to both our sides, they may send someone from management to check up on us. We probably shouldn’t be seen together,” said Aziraphale. He looked around as though he might spot Sandalphon hiding in a suit of armor, or Gabriel lurking behind a tapestry. 

Crowley looked resigned. “Yeah. What a waste, here we both are, can’t even pass the time together.” A flicker of realization crossed his face. “I’ve got it! They can’t see us together if one of us isn’t here. Your task’s stupid, anyway. Let me do both.”

“Out of the question! I can’t pass off such an important job to the Enemy.”

“Is it really all that important that you, personally, take some human king on a devotional seaside holiday?” Crowley asked affably. Aziraphale shook his head and opened his mouth to answer. “You think I can’t do it? You think I won’t do a good job? I told you, I can do blessings. I’m very convincing.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and waved a hand. “Oh, fine. I had no idea what kind of demonstration to have the king do, anyway.”

“I’ve got some ideas. Shake on it?” 

They shook.

“Excellent,” Crowley smiled. He looked very, very pleased with himself. “You’ll just owe me one, then.”

“Owe you what?” Aziraphale blustered. 

“You can get the next one, next time we’ve got ridiculous assignments in the same place. Like taking turns paying the bill.” 

“You always pay the bill before I can,” said Aziraphale, in a way that he hoped did not imply that he would like Crowley to stop doing just that.

“_Like_ taking turns paying the bill,” Crowley insisted. “No big deal, we’ll just spot each other now and again. Now why don’t you take the day off? Go see that library in Shahr-e Ray you keep talking about.”

Aziraphale’s eyes gleamed. The library of Sahib ibn Abbad was supposed to have over two hundred thousand volumes, and he was itching to get his hands on them. “Alright. But write me and tell me how it goes.”

Crowley’s teeth were very neat and very white. “Sure, angel.”

“Promise,” said Aziraphale, pointing a finger.

“On my honor,” said Crowley. “Off you pop.”

The letter was the first thing to snap Aziraphale out of his blissful book-induced reverie in nearly four weeks. It read:

_In case anyone asks — started a rumor at court that the sea wouldn’t dare wash over the feet of the king. You should have seen them standing all wet and shivering as the tide came in. They’ve all got nasty head colds now, and he won’t wear his crown anymore, just prays a lot._

_Until next time._

————————————————

The world kept turning on its axis, kept grinding out the years. Governments and empires rose and fell. Human lives winked in and out of existence. When Aziraphale looked at his hand, it was the same soft hand that gripped his sword in Eden. When he looked in a mirror, it was the same round face, the same upturned nose, the same cloud-dust hair, the same worried eyes. This was how it should be. He was created to be perfect, why change?

Aziraphale rarely felt perfect. Times were changing, much faster than he was. 

Crowley was fluid. Like a snake, when his old skin no longer fit, he shed it and created another. From angel to Fallen. From a male form to a female, and back again; neither, both. From a name he had never told Aziraphale, to Crawly, to Crowley, and perhaps it would change again. 

Where Crowley was fluid, Aziraphale was immutable. He knew his name, that gift from the Almighty, from the first moment he knew consciousness. He had always been deeply, deeply himself. He was a mountain, an ancient tree with roots down to the bedrock. He was strong, he had to be strong to keep going through so many trials, but he longed for comfort, for satisfaction. Where he was softness and generosity, too much, always wanting and taking but never sated, Crowley was alternately sharp and blunt, an awl or a battering ram, and his true power as he sauntered through the world was that he wanted nothing. 

If Crowley was a tempestuous wave crashing on the shore, Aziraphale imagined himself as the deep, silent ocean thirty meters down. He wished to be still and vast and calm. He wished to trust, to accept, to ride the current to its inevitable end, without having to question whether it was right.

He was an angel; he was created to serve and glorify, not to question.

Crowley had questioned, and it had cost him everything. He asked questions; he changed. He asked again; he changed again to suit the next answer he got. He asked more; he read between the lines of the answer to cobble together the truth. Crowley wanted to _know_, the serpent who had never tasted the apple. 

Aziraphale did not wish to ask. 

In 1800 he opened a bookshop. His— _the_ demon brought him gifts on the day of the grand opening. For sixty-two years, he was very happy. 

————————————————

Crowley had spat his words back in his face with gritted teeth. _”I don’t need you.”_

It shouldn’t have hurt so much. 

He spent most of the next decade angry, and the one after that half-expecting Crowley to appear at the door of the bookshop at any moment. It didn’t happen.

He could write Crowley a note, see if he sent one back. If not, he would at least be spared the humiliation of Crowley’s rejection in person. In his most careful, beautiful hand, he wrote:

_All going well at the bookshop. I still have the bottle of port you gave me in 1845._

Impersonal, neutral, but clear in its intent. Aziraphale sealed the little note and stepped out onto the Soho street to find a telegraph boy. A number of enterprising young men had started making a business out of running telegrams and letters. They were easy enough to pick out — young men who perked up at the approach of someone moneyed. 

“Good afternoon, my boy, am I mistaken in believing you can deliver a letter for me?” He knew he was not.

The young man was just twenty, with soft brown hair and a charming smattering of freckles on his nose. He looked him up and down, and smiled. “I can.”

Aziraphale smiled benevolently, the tiniest of blessings falling upon the messenger. “Oh, lovely. I’ll need this delivered to a Mister Crowley. The address is just here. Post-haste, if you please. And if he wishes to respond today, please wait for the reply.” He pressed five times what the service cost into the boy’s hand. “For your time and trouble.”

“Of course, sir,” he said smoothly. He slipped the money into his pocket. “And who shall I say the letter is from?”

“He’ll know,” said Aziraphale. “You may bring any correspondence from him to the bookshop, just there.” He returned to his cozy bookshop, made himself a cup of tea with a splash of brandy, and waited.

A tentative rap came at the door long after closing time. “We’re closed!” Aziraphale called without thinking. 

“It’s me, sir,” came a hesitant voice from the door. 

“Oh! Coming!” Aziraphale rushed to let the boy in, full of anticipation. If it had taken the boy this long to return, surely he must have a reply. Would Crowley accept his invitation? Would he still be angry? For the first time in his life, regardless of the answer, Aziraphale needed to _know_.

“Beg your pardon, but I wasn’t able to deliver it,” the boy said once he was inside. “No one home.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh. I see.” 

“Right, so I waited a bit, since you were so generous with your payment, sir, but nothing. Big place, too, thought it was odd there were no servants to come to the door.” He shrugged and moved to hand the letter back to Aziraphale.

“Ah. Well. My friend travels rather a lot. The whole household could be away,” he said unhappily. “Will you try again tomorrow? I’ll compensate you, of course. Be discreet.” Behind his back, he miracled another coin from the air and gave it to the boy.

“I can be as discreet as you need, sir,” the boy said, letting their fingertips brush as he took the coin. 

Aziraphale learned three things over the next few days: the messenger’s name was Arthur, Crowley was either gone or ignoring him, and Arthur didn’t only make his money delivering telegrams.

“it’s no use,” Aziraphale fretted on the evening of the fifth day. He took the letter back from Arthur and sat down in his favorite armchair. “How much longer is this going to go on? How long can someone hold a grudge?”

“Been in a row with your friend?” Arthur asked.

“For—“ It had been nearly twenty-five years ago at this point; it wouldn’t do to tell the boy this whole nasty affair was over a tiff they’d had a few years before he was born. “For a long time now.”

Arthur nodded, hesitated, and crossed the room to sit gracefully on his lap. 

Aziraphale blinked at him. “My dear boy, you don’t need—”

“It’s all right, Mister Fell. I’m good at it. Much better than I am at delivering letters.” Arthur grinned down at him saucily, and kissed him. 

Aziraphale had dabbled in pleasures of the flesh over the last hundred fifty years or so. He moved in genteel circles, and those who lived lives of leisure openly pursued those particular delights, in all their fascinating incarnations. He had spent some time in mollyhouses in the eighteenth century, enjoying the companionship as well as the sensual pleasures. It could all be quite wonderful, as satisfying as a gourmet meal or fine clothes, in its own way. And the young man on his lap was beautiful, in the human way, full of sensation and chemicals and the ecstasy of the ephemeral.

“Oh, you lovely thing,” Aziraphale sighed. The boy kissed him so sweetly, so earnestly. Was it such a terrible thing to admit how lonely he had been? He locked the bookshop door with a wave, then let his hands settle on Arthur’s hips. “Come here.” He helped Arthur straddle him, guided the young man to grind his bottom against him, where his cock strained at his trousers. With nimble hands, the boy took apart Aziraphale’s many layers of clothing, down to his trousers. It felt wonderful, the surety of it, the warm reality of the touch as Arthur stroked him.

When Aziraphale was fully hard and ready, Arthur settled down between his legs and took him into his mouth. He had been truthful, he was very good at it, and he looked up at Aziraphale with the rehearsed reverence of someone well-practiced. It was enough. Aziraphale made himself be gentle; he petted Arthur’s hair and held himself still in the yielding mouth as he climaxed for the first time in decades.

When Arthur rose, Aziraphale gently pulled him back onto his lap. “That was marvelous, you clever creature. Let me take care of you, now.” 

Arthur ran a hand down the white-gold hair on Aziraphale’s chest and stomach. “As you like, Mister Fell.” 

“I do like, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed. He reached into Arthur’s trousers and stroked him delicately in his plump hand. “You were so good to me just now. Kiss me.” There was just a trace of his power behind his words, and Arthur blushed. He tasted himself, bitter and raw in the boy’s mouth. Had he ever dared to envision this before, tasting himself in another mouth?

He held Arthur to his chest as he milked his cock, and let just a little more of his power come through, let a bit of his Love transfer over. The boy clung to him devotedly, his eyes closed, his mouth agape. When he came, it was silent, though his body shuddered for long moments after his prick was spent. 

“That’s very good, my dear, bless you for being so lovely for me,” Aziraphale murmured against his temple. 

It was through Arthur that he came to join the Hundred Guineas Club, and to learn to dance, and to meet Oscar. Oscar was clever, and irreverent, and fearless, and extravagant, and ridiculous. Aziraphale adored him and was frustrated by him in more or less equal measures. He was saddened but not surprised when it ended in tragedy. Human law was woefully unsophisticated, and some humans burned too brightly to last. 

In 1905, Aziraphale acquired a first printing of _De Profundis_. He read intently through the long letter in which his dear friend tried to make sense of his imprisonment, until-- He closed the thin book, carefully placed in a drawer, and did not return to it for several months. 

_I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world, and I was going out into the world with that passion in my soul. And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom._

————————————————

There was no use denying it. With his book satchel in hand, a dazed smile still on his face, he developed his fourth theory of Crowley.

Crowley did not want to tempt him. He did not want to corrupt him. He did not want to return to holiness or use him to shirk his duties. 

Crowley was _devoted_ to him.

That old thought rose up again: _he would do anything for you._

_I know,_ he finally answered.

It made his head spin, and that night he insisted that Crowley come into the bookshop and let him look at his burned feet. Crowley had deflected, and denied, until finally he allowed himself to be ushered inside, given a stiff drink, and tended to.

“I don’t know what you expect to do about it,” said Crowley. “You know you can’t use a miracle on me.”

“Then I’ll treat you the human way,” Aziraphale answered, carrying a large basin of water, which he laid on the floor. “Shoes and socks off.”

Crowley didn’t move. “You don’t have to.” 

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “Shoes and socks _off_, please.”

Crowley stoically unlaced his shoes, and hissed as he pulled one off. There was a sound of peeling, as though something had melted and stuck together. “Fuck,” he said through his teeth. “Ugh. Here goes nothing.” He drew his hand upward and snapped his fingers. Now miraculously bare, Aziraphale could see how his feet were blackened, the soles blistered and raw.

Aziraphale knelt down and positioned the basin in front of the wincing demon. With tender hands, he reached to guide one of Crowley’s feet into the water. 

“Get up.” Crowley’s voice was low and serious. Aziraphale looked at him patiently. “Get _up_,” he repeated. “I swear on Satan’s great stinking bollocks, Aziraphale, if you don’t get up--”

“Crowley,” he said. “Please let me do this for you.” He wished he could see Crowley’s eyes, know what thoughts were concealed just beyond the black glass, above the tensing jaw. “I want to.”

Slowly, Crowley sat back. He tossed his hat on the sofa cushion beside him, and rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Y’shouldn’t,” he muttered. 

“Feet in the basin, please, dear,” said Aziraphale. He knew he shouldn’t want to. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He had washed Crowley’s feet, poured clean water over them, and wrapped them in soft bandages. His useless heart hammered in his chest the entire time. Crowley stared off into the corner, though once or twice Aziraphale caught him glancing downward. Aziraphale smiled up at him, trying to make him feel his fondness, his gratitude.

If he felt it, he didn’t say. Crowley had left it at that, had miracled himself a new pair of shoes straight onto his feet, and took his leave. “Better if I go,” he’d said softly. “Night, angel. Keep out of trouble.” 

Aziraphale called it “devotion” in his head, because he had the equivalent of a radio telescope built into him which could sense love. He had never felt any such thing from Crowley, even as the demon teased and stared and brought gifts and picked up bar tabs over the centuries. When he had washed Crowley’s feet, he had fired the thing up and pointed it at him, aching to receive any kind of signal. Nothing. 

Demons couldn’t love, everyone knew that. 

Perhaps he was just searching on the wrong frequency. 

What he had long interpreted as temptation was a growing love. Could he, would he ever dare to show Crowley that he felt the same? First, the curiosity. Then, the intrigue, the thrill, the attraction of the forbidden. Later, the companionship, the understanding. Now… 

He was still so afraid. How he wished he could banish his fear, be as certain as Crowley always seemed to be about everything. Of course demonic love would be different from holy love. But he could never justify it to his people. They had become ever more withdrawn from the comings and goings of the world; they would not want to hear that this very concept, a demon in love, was revolutionary, a miracle. They would scorn him, deny it, explain it away.

_"Your pet demon is deluded. Even if he thinks he feels love, whatever it really is will destroy you,"_ they would say. _"It would be a jealous love, a possessive love. He would take his pleasures from you violently. He has nothing of the Almighty in him, and he would fill that void by consuming you."_

He heard the words in his head in his darkest moments, when doubt threatened to consume him unless he pushed it down, pushed it away, as he always had. 

Two decades later, he gave Crowley something that he’d sworn never to give. It took every ounce of courage to pass him the thermos filled with holy oblivion, and it broke his heart to see the surprise, the softness on Crowley’s face. Those blasted glasses, why couldn’t he let him see his eyes for once? _It’s just easier,_ Crowley had once said. Easier to hide. Easier to deny. Easier to ignore what you couldn’t see. 

Words failed him, but their actions had always told their truth. 

One recklessly brave act was about all he could handle for one night. Some day, he told the demon who loved him. _”You go too fast for me,”_ he said, and got out of the car. It was true, it had always been true. Crowley had always been so far ahead, beckoning him forward. Now Aziraphale was nearly close enough to brush at his coat-tails.

One day he would catch up. They had plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "Lilac House" by Half Waif all week while writing this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKTgyHjL0kc  
"I've been looking on the bright side for my whole life / Now I'm looking for trouble"


End file.
